Choices I Make
by psychobabblers
Summary: "'Neal. They'll send you back to jail for this,' she whispers."   Neal is placed into Peter's shoes as an undercover mission goes wrong and he's left with a choice. Can he sacrifice his freedom for Peter's life?
1. Choices

**A/N: Okay, I had a bunch of things I had to say, but then I forgot. Got distracted by this picture: http : / / yfrog . com /2oftjp (copy and paste and take out spaces) El and 'Mario' Peter with baby Satchmo! AWWW**

**Anyway, I hope this story isn't too confusing. It kinda just went bleargh near the middle. And then I combined the first and second chapters to make a bigger chapter. And, hopefully, Neal's angstiness doesn't seem too OOC. It's a pretty big worry of mine.**

**I don't have a beta, so if there's mistakes, feel free to point them out. And if anyone thinks the rating should be upped, please tell me and I will do so.**

**I'll try to tie loose ends up in Part 2. **

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

****Choices I Make****

A man sits bound in a dark room God only knows where. He certainly doesn't. All he knows is that there is absolutely no light, no fresh air, and barely any sound. He can't tell how many hours or days or weeks he has been sitting here, alone in the dark. It can't have been long though, otherwise they would have found him by now.

Loud thumping interrupts his hazy thoughts and he squeezes his eyes shut. Just in the time too, because a second later, the naked light bulb dangling above his head flickers into life. He wishes he could cover his face with his hands, to block the light and to relieve the ache in his shoulders.

One of the three men around him, the one directly in front, begins to speak, but he ignores him. He's too distracted by the glaring light after all that time in pitch blackness to listen anyway.

"Are you listening to me?" the man who had been speaking shouts. He winces at the noise and now wishes he could cover his ears also. It's too bright, too loud, and his head hurts terribly from where a metal bar had collided with it earlier. It's ironic, he notes with a kind of detached despair, how he had wished for any light, noise, or feeling during that stay in the darkness, and that now that he has all three, he wishes for the emptiness of before.

The speaker glares and kicks him in his leg, hard, so that the chair he is tied to is knocked over. He grunts when it impacts with the rough, cold, cement floor. One of the men behind him rights the chair again.

He's gotten used to the light a little bit by now. Enough to see the blood on his shoulder, which, no matter how he squints at it, he is unable to tell whether it's fresh or dried. His leg throbs.

"Listen up," the speaker says, producing a blade. Satisfied that he has his attention now, he continues, "I think you'll be glad to know we've decided not to kill you." A pause.

He's confused. Does he expect him to answer? He turns his head a little, and he can feel the blood tugging at the back of his neck where it's apparently dripped down and dried there. The man still seems to be waiting for a reply. He glares a little, which would have to do. It's not like he can say a word anyway.

The man seems satisfied. "Your treacherous hide might be worth some ransom money. Enough that we'll be able to get over your betrayal." A smile and another pause. "So let's see…how much are you worth? An agent such as you… How about 10 million?"

_10 million_? The smile grows wider at his obvious shock.

"We'll give them, oh I don't know. Five days? Exactly how long you were able to fool us," the man says. He claps a hand to the bound man's shoulder in a companionable way. Still smiling, he and his men leave, returning him to his world of nothingness and muted sounds.

They don't expect the ransom to be paid, he realizes. It's just a joke to them, he thinks, his life is just a joke. He can't be bothered to work up the energy to feel angry though. The past few days of stress of being undercover and then taken captive had taken its toll.

They return within a few minutes, at least by his estimates, to take a picture of him. Classic ransom photo, him holding the day's paper and a man with a knife to his throat, the point just slicing through his skin so that a few drops of red drip down his neck. To make his people understand the urgency of the situation, he is told.

"Smile," one of the thugs tells him, even though there's nothing really for him to smile about. It's just another joke to them.

A horrendously bright flash blinds him suddenly and he cries out involuntarily, first from the shock, and then from the pain in his eyes. The sounds are muffled by the foul-smelling and foul-tasting cloth covering his mouth.

"Knock him out," he hears someone order, and a heavy something hits his head from behind. The explosion of stars quickly gives way to unconsciousness, which, at this point, is blessed relief.

* * *

_Later that day, FBI offices_

A day. A day of frantic searches and worry when he failed to check in at the appointed time. It's morning now, though early enough so that the sky isn't blue yet and the sun can't even be seen yet. It's clear of clouds, and in the black turning to dark blue turning to purple and lightening to orange, I can still make out the faint twinkling of stars. I fume quietly to myself, the bitter worry clenching my stomach. The stars have absolutely no right to sparkle like that when he is missing.

My reflection looks exhausted, dark bags under the tired eyes. Cups of the office's awful coffee sit in various positions around his desk. Special Agent Diana Barrigan comes into the office. She shakes her head at my hopeful look and hands me a photograph instead. The worry unclenches and fear settles in a dead weight instead.

The picture is dark and kind of grainy, but the man in the center, bound and gagged, with his illuminated face looking pallid and drawn, is instantly recognizable. _How had he gotten himself into this mess?_ I think resentfully. I can't tear my eyes from the dark drops on his throat, where the knife has pricked him, or the darker stains on his shoulder almost hidden from view. His eyes appear slightly unfocused and I wonder if he has a concussion.

He's supposed to be better than this. The best doesn't get caught. _Yes they do_, a little voice reminds me, _Just take a good look at yourself_. I ignore it. Undercover work, while skilled at it, was hardly his area of expertise. I knew I should have argued harder that I was fine and able to do it. I mentally cursed the jewel thief from out last case who had panicked and shot a bullet into my leg. If it weren't for him, we wouldn't be in this mess.

"At least he's alive," I say, and I flinch inwardly at how cold my voice sounds. I can't stop my hands from trembling as I hand the photo back to her, not even caring if she notices or not.

"Ransom demand will probably come soon," she says.

I take one more look at the photo before Diana leaves the office and wonder how he can look so calm with a knife to his throat.

Ignoring her order to get some rest, I sit down in the chair instead. This counted as resting, I supposed. After a moment, I put my feet on his desk and wished he would come into his office and grumble at me to get out of his chair, to leave his crossword alone, or even to threaten to send me back to jail for some prank I'd pulled.

I wonder what the ransom will be. How much do they think his life is worth?

* * *

Peter's left alone for most of the time. The rope that had bound his hands behind the chair has been replaced with a cord. Whoever tied it had been a lot harsher, pulling the thin but strong cord cruelly tight around his wrists. He can feel them cutting deeper each time he moves.

He has nothing to do all day but think. Briefly, he wonders if the FBI is having any luck finding him, or of getting together the ransom money. He doubts it. The people who are holding him are not amateurs. He knows this much at least from working undercover among them for five days. If he's been moved out of the country, say to Mexico, where he knows they have a base, then he's in even more trouble. Especially since border control is a lot more worried about who or what is coming in than going out these days.

He thinks back to his vague memories of being tossed into a vehicle half unconscious, still bound and gagged, and the sensation of movement from where he lay on the cold metal floor.

At least a day or two has already past, which out of five, is not very encouraging. He doesn't know how long he was out for and so can't be sure. Plus, they keep him in total darkness so that he doesn't know what the room he is held in looks like and is disoriented.

There isn't much point wondering how Neal or Diana or Jones or Hughes or the White Collar unit or the FBI in general is doing in their search for him. There isn't much he can do for himself either. Peter's used to action, not waiting around for his team to come rescue him because he had somehow managed to blow his cover.

They have him bound all the time, save for the one time he was fed, where he still has one had tied behind his back and a man holding a gun on him impatiently while he tries not to inhale the meager rations too fast. At least they bothered to feed him. He knows that the human body can sustain itself for quite awhile on simply water, and definitely for the few days the ransom demand limits his life to. Hopefully it's not the only time. He needs to be alert and on the lookout for escape, but the lack of enough food and water makes him feel exhausted and weary.

Peter tests the bonds again, but stops when pain lances up from his wrists. Fresh blood drips down his hands, wet and sticky. The chair's probably bolted to the floor because it hadn't even shifted from his short struggle. Not that that was very useful information.

If only he still had the transmitter hidden in a watch he'd been given for the mission. He tries to feel if it is on his wrist but his hands were starting to numb. There's a good chance that it was taken so that they could contact the FBI for hostage negotiations. He sighs. Too much of what he "knows" is guesswork, which, in his experience makes for a very bad case.

There's absolutely nothing for him to do, and if he lets his mind wander he's afraid that it will go all too quickly to how out-of-control his fate seems at the moment. So he forces himself to write an informal mission report in his head. It's not the most pleasant of memories to think back to, but it's better than thinking of El, of her love and support, of how she is the most amazing woman he's ever met or will meet in his life. He wonders guiltily how she's holding up in this mess, even if the situation isn't his fault.

Then there's Neal. He doesn't want to think about the charming conman, with his constant smile, his endless enthusiasm for the most random of things, and of course, his ridiculous hat. Peter finds himself wishing that he could tell Neal just how much he respects him and values their friendship. He doesn't think that's he'd ever told him that he's as much his family as El is. Stop it, he orders himself, desperately trying to regain his self-discipline. There's going to be plenty of time for that when they find him. Or at least he hopes. Unbidden, the insurance investigator's, Sara's, dubious words echo in his head, "the Bureau's recovery rate is less than one in twenty."

He's forgetting about Neal though. The conman had always been good at stealing what couldn't be stolen. And his team had stood by him through countless harrowing cases. This gang stood no chance against them. He just hopes that they didn't take much longer, because he doubts that even Neal could steal him back from the dead.

* * *

I'm still slightly in shock thinking about the demand. There is no way the Bureau is going to send $10 million to a gang of smugglers to ransom Peter. At least, not immediately. For huge money grants like this. The order would eventually come but not quickly enough, although Hughes had raised my respect for him by another notch by staying in his office and attempting to harass his superiors into giving us the money grant. There's a lot to be said about loyalty to one's team.

I'm reminded all of a sudden by the differences between my world's and Peter's. On a job, you had to be careful of not only the mark but also your own team. They could betray you to another group or take whatever thing you were stealing together and run. _Like how Alex did?_ It's amazing how that little voice in my head sounds so much like Peter. _She brought it back_, I argued. _Only because she was protecting herself or because she wants something from you Neal, you know that._

Rather than continuing that unhelpful argument with myself, I take a look around the bustling White Collar unit. Every agent is engaged in the search for Peter, given the seriousness of the situation. That's the good part about working on this side. You know that if you're caught, you team won't just say, "Oh well, that's too bad. Bigger cut for me now!" and leave you there to figure a way out on your own.

I think even Mozzie would agree with me that for the loyalty part at least, the Feds have it down much better than we do.

There's not much that I can personally do to help though, and it's annoying me. My injured leg still aches and though I try to ignore it in the hopes that they'll actually let me do something, so far, my requests for fieldwork have all been denied by Hughes. He says that I'm not allowed to leave my two-mile radius without Peter. Given that Peter's currently being held hostage, I can only watch as the rest of his team moves in and out of the office searching for possible locations. I can't tell whether I've been turned down because he's concerned for my injury or if he wants to keep me in the office to keep an eye on me and make sure I don't get into trouble.

After I asked Mozzie to work his contacts for word of Peter, I've just been sitting here in Peter's office staring at his desk. It's a strange feeling, this mixture of utter boredom and uselessness and desperate worry. There's also guilt because I'm not helping at all. All those times my own missions have gone awry, Peter was always there to kick down the door shouting, "FBI!" at just the right moment. Like seconds away from my head getting splattered by some psycho.

And my uselessness is my own fault. For once, I don't have much knowledge about this particular group and I'm still annoyed at myself for not paying attention to them earlier. All I know is that they have a medium-sized operation that smuggled not very prominent, flashy things that would get them too noticed, but added up in bulk earned them a hefty amount of money. I preferred things that were more of a challenge to steal. They most likely moved the goods out of the country, I think. That's what I do if I can manage it. If they moved goods across country borders, then why not a person?

If they had already moved him, it'll be a lot harder to find him. But still, it's better than what we've got right now—nothing.

I pull up the group's files on Peter's computer and start reading. After a few minutes, the door opens.

"What's that you're so interested in Caffrey?"

It's Agent Mannings. He's one of the agents from the Organized Crime unit that has been sent over to help, because apparently they have more experience in dealing with this type of group. If that's so, why didn't they just take the case in the first place? Then Peter wouldn't be in this mess. They're not very friendly, at least not to me, and each time a casual, but blatantly suspicious is tossed in my direction, I find myself wishing Peter was here. It's not that I need his protection, but frankly, they are starting to make me lose my temper, and I hate losing control of my emotions. Besides, I don't think it'd go over very well if I started shouting at them.

"Just doing my part to help find Pe-Agent Burke," I reply, trying for a friendly smile.

"And what could you possibly need to do on _Peter's_ personal computer?" He's obviously determined to find something wrong with what I'm doing. And the use of Peter's first name hasn't slipped by me. I hope he's not one of Peter's old partners. Or friend.

I attempt to speak, but I'm cut off. "As a matter of fact, are you even allowed to be here? Why are you in his office?" My temper flares up for a second and I glare at him. I'm about to retort when the door opens again and Diana walks in. I hadn't even realized she'd gotten back to the office.

"You find it?" she asks, nodding a greeting to him in passing.

"Yeah, and I have a feeling I know where they took him," I say smoothly.

Scowling at her interruption of his interrogating me, Mannings crosses his arms as I pitch my theory to Diana.

She closes her eyes for a moment, "I can't believe we didn't think of this earlier. I think I might even though the exact location too." She types on the computer, furiously scrolling and scanning the screen until she finds what she is looking for.

I lean in to look. It's a map.

Pointing at the screen, she says, "This group's base is in Mexico, but pretty close to the border, near a city called Piedras Negras. Now, unfortunately, there are three different suspected locations. The owner of the major iron and steel industry here practically controls these towns. He pays his workers well-enough, and they don't ask questions. We think that he has a hand in either funding or leadership with this group."

"If you suspected, why didn't you just take him down earlier?"

She looks amused, "The FBI isn't all-powerful Neal. We suspected but had no proof. Not enough to launch an investigation on. Besides, they're rarely a nuisance in America and our jurisdiction stops at the border, remember?" I did remember. It'd helped me slip out of Peter's clutches several times in those years he'd been hunting me.

Diana quickly calls a meeting to bring everyone up-to-date. "Right, any questions? No? Okay then, back to work," she finishes.

"Hang on," everyone stops to look at Agent Collins, who is Manning's partner and who seems to dislike me even more than he does. "You're basing your conclusion on what, _his_ hunch?" he steps closer to me. "Burke's _pet con_," he says, emphasizing the last two words. He stares at me coolly. "I don't know what he sees in him, but that man's a criminal. For all we know, we could have used to run with them. How can you trust what he says?"

Despite myself, his words and their implications sting. "I would _never_—" I begin hotly when Diana intervenes.

"Peter trusts him, and so do we. If you're not going to help, then at least stop harassing the people who are," she says, staring him down. He looks away first. The rest of the people in the conference room quietly file out and get to work.

I return to Peter's office. It's almost the end of the second day, and I know that no one's going to be getting much sleep. Seems to me that I've been walking around in Peter's shoes way too much lately and making a mess out of it. _I'm_ not an FBI agent. I don't know how to negotiate for a hostage release, manage higher-ups who don't want to spend $10 million to save a life, or raid a smuggling ring's base when everything blows up in your face despite all you've done.

Suddenly, I'm afraid that this is one case we won't be able to solve. The previous ones, I knew that I could outsmart, outlie, outcon them, but this, this I'm in over my head. They might not find him in time, I realize, especially if my hunch is wrong. And if they don't find him and they don't have the money by the time the five days are up, then… My mind refuses to finish the thought.

I see Hughes in his office slam the phone down in disgust. He shakes his head when Diana glances up inquiringly at the sound and her face falls.

I take out my phone and call my Mozzie. "Hey Moz."

"You find the suit?" he asks without preamble.

"Never thought you'd care so much about Peter."

"_You_ care about him, and you've been a mess these last few days," he says. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "For a Fed, he's not so bad."

I want to grin a little at that, but I don't.

"So what do you need?"

"I don't think we're going to get to him in time."

There was a moment of silence at the other end. "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure yet," I reply. Seeing Diana approaching, I say quickly, "I might need your help later. Gotta go. Bye."

"What've we got?" I ask her.

"Nothing," she says, disgusted. "They won't even give us part of the ransom money because we'd have to get at least half to buy some more time. And we don't know which of the three locations he's in. And to make matters worse, it seems the guy who owns the factories has some clout with the government. They're being really uncooperative, anyway." She sighs heavily.

Hughes calls a meeting in the conference room. I share a apprehensive look with Diana as we head over. "I don't think I need to remind you how serious this situation is. Unfortunately, it's about to get even worse. This has gotten bumped up pretty high up the command ladder, and now it seems that the director is taking a personal interest in this." A the confused looks he says, "He wants to make this part of his new 'we're not going to give an inch to terrorists' policy. Which means no ransom money from the government at all. Also, he doesn't want to offend the Mexican government. Which means we aren't allowed to go in unless we have proof of where he is."

That's the part that Peter's side don't have right. They might have teammates that care and are willing to help, but they have to obey the chain of command. And all too often those higher up on the hierarchy have their own agendas that they might be willing to risk the lives of their people on, all while hiding behind the law and "proper procedure." Well, the cons I used to run with don't. I suppose organized crime might be like that though. But at least they're upfront about it and don't make excuses for their behavior.

"How are we supposed to get evidence if we can't go look around?" someone finally asks. "We can't rely only on satellite!"

"That's what we're going to have to do. Check for all vehicles leaving the building where Peter went undercover, since a few hours before he went dark up till yesterday. Pay attention at tunnels and places like that where the vehicles are blocked from view because there's a very good chance that he was switched into different vehicles. And watch the suspected locations for movement. Try to match the cars."

Everyone nods, and leaves.

I call Mozzie again. "Okay, I need your help…"

**...**

A little into the fifth day, after over two days of frantic searching and eyes glued to the screen, I walk up to Diana.

"We need more time."

She whirls around, frustrated, and snaps, "There is no time!" She backs down and apologizes. "I'm sorry…It's just…Time's up."

"We'll just have to buy some more then," I say.

Agent Mannings approaches. "With what?" he asks savagely, "The agency won't grant us any money!"

I hesitate, then admit, "I have $3 million in cash."

"What?" Mannings shouts. "You had money all along and you didn't offer earlier? How could you be so selfish?"

Diana steps in. "Stop yelling. It's not helping." She still looks at me accusingly, but lets me explain.

"I didn't want to get your hopes up, and I was hoping that you'd find him first," I admit. "Anyway, I had to get Moz to gather up the money. It's hidden in staches all over the place. You don't really think I'd hide it all in one location?"

Mannings is still glaring at me, but Diana just looks relieved. "Whatever. I'm just glad that we have something to bargain with." Agent Collins, alerted by his partner's raised voice, comes over just in time to hear the last part.

"What do we have to bargain with?" he asked tiredly.

"Caffrey's got three mil in cash," Mannings says.

I brace myself for the anger that I saw in Mannings eyes, but Collins doesn't say anything for a moment. "I thought the director says we aren't to pay the ransom. That then we'll practically be funding them."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "How can you say that?" I hiss. "This could buy us enough time to get Peter out! How can you be talking about playing this by-the-book?"

"I don't expect a _criminal_ to understand that none of us are above the law," he sneers. He looks to Mannings for support. To my surprise, he doesn't say anything.

"There's no law against paying a ransom demand," I snap. "The director only says that the agency won't give us a grant. This is my money." I couldn't believe we were having this argument right now. Izquierdo, the leader of the ring that Peter had been dealing with, would be calling any second.

* * *

The undercover operation was to feed the smuggling ring, which had seemed to be expanding their operations in the U.S., false information by pretending to be a dirty cop. Originally, their plan had been for Neal to go under but he'd gotten shot in the leg on the last case and although it hadn't been serious and had mostly healed, Peter hadn't wanted to send a man whose leg still randomly twitched from pain into a gang of roughneck smugglers. Besides Peter actually was a cop, or at least more of one than Neal was, and, as Neal had quipped once he stopped protesting, it wouldn't be that hard to pretend he was dirty. Peter'd just rolled his eyes and focused on memorizing his cover story.

They bought it, with the reservation that anyone bribing law enforcement would naturally feel. For the next few days, Peter fed them information that the FBI wanted to be spread around. He didn't actually see any smuggled goods, other than numerous boxes and crates that were shipped in and out of the building in large white trucks daily.

The smugglers accepted him, but there was something off about how they treated him. He couldn't really describe it, but it seemed familiar almost, although he couldn't remember anyone treating him that way before. The next time he talked to Neal though, it hit him. And then every time he caught that specific emotion with any look they gave him, he had to hide a flinch.

When the conman had first proposed the deal to him, he'd been skeptical, and after they'd finalized it and Neal was set loose under his watch, he'd never imagined that they'd become partners and even friends. He thought back to those days when the world wasn't drawn in shades of gray, before he'd met the man who changed the lines to black and white and Neal Caffrey. In the beginning he hadn't known how to treat him. He couldn't treat him like a friend because he wasn't, he couldn't treat him like how he treated his team because he wasn't exactly that. Just how was he supposed to treat a consultant that he'd spent three years hunting and then sent to jail?

But he hoped that he'd never treated Neal the way these smugglers treated him. It wasn't dislike, or callousness, or hatred. It was more of a casual sort of disdain, the kind that cut deeper because the person wasn't even trying. They saw him as a traitor to his people, a greedy sleazebag who would sell out his own for some cash, and they treated him accordingly. How ironic, he thought, to be seen as immoral by criminals.

Thinking back though, there were plenty of incidents, though, mostly with agents from other divisions. Peter hadn't realized, and Neal had never said anything. That was one thing he had to make right, he resolved, as he received another level stare from a smuggler whose face was almost completely hidden by a cloud of smoke from the cigarette clenched between his teeth. No one should have to deal with this, and especially not someone who was under his protection.

Then, of course, came the day when the younger brother of Izquierdo, who hadn't liked Peter from the moment he saw him, came running into the room where he was talking with the leader, shoved a file at his brother, and pointed an accusing finger at Peter and said triumphantly, "He's a cop!"

Izquierdo, for his part, had merely glanced down at the folder and didn't even bother to open it. "Yes, we know," he said patiently, as if talking to an idiot.

Almost hopping with impatience, the brother snapped, "No, he's a _real_ cop!" and at that, Izquierdo had straightened. Peter's mouth was dry as he watched him read the file slowly. Some of his thugs had unobtrusively taken up position around Peter. At last, he'd looked up and his gaze was cold. And then Peter's vision slid to black when something hard hit the back of his head and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Well, that was a rather unelegant way to get caught, he thinks ruefully. Peter still hasn't figured out how the foolish younger brother had managed to get a file that had convinced Izquierdo.

Thumping footsteps come closer, a light also flickering into view. He squeezes his eyes shut as the lights are turned on. "Peter," a voice he recognizes as Izquierdo says, "You're looking well." His thugs laugh and he waits for Peter to open his eyes before he speaks again.

"Your five days are up, and it's time to call your friends to see if they were willing to buy you back." That's a question Peter would like to see answered too, although he'd have preferred it if they had managed to locate and rescue him.

The smuggler boss takes out the transmitter, which looks like it's been butchered. Of course they had to make it untraceable first. "So have you put together my ransom money yet? I would like to be $10 million richer, but I wouldn't mind killing your friend instead."

Diana's voice crackles through. "We need more time to get the money together." Peter closes his eyes for second. Izquierdo's looking at him when he opens them again.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think your friend has much time left," he says, pulling out his knife and ghosting it over Peter's throat.

"We have $3 million. In cash," he hears her say bluntly, "We can get you the rest too, if you just give it some more time. We'll deliver it a little at a time, but I want to speak to him first."

Izquierdo holds the transmitter close to Peter's face and pulls the cloth off of his mouth. "Diana," he gasps hoarsely.

"Are you alright?" she asks, her voice tight with concern.

"I'm fine. How'd you manage to get the money?"

"I'll tell you later," she says, before she's cut off. Peter's gag is stuffed back into his mouth.

"That's enough. You know that he's alive now. I will accept your offer. But I ask, and think carefully before you answer: how much more time do you require?"

She hesitates before answering, and Peter guesses that she's in discussion with the rest of his team. "Three days," she says finally.

"Is this your final answer?"

There's a pause. "Yes," she says.

"You will have to pay for this delay."

"How much?" she asks.

"No, no, you misunderstand me. I am an honorable man. I asked for $10 million, and I will not raise the price," he states firmly.

"I dont understand."

"I own several horses," he says companionably, gesturing to one of his men to step into the light. "And so of course, I also have this." The light falls on a horsewhip in the man's hands. Peter's eyes widen with horror and as two of them untie him, he struggles fiercely. His desperation gives him a burst of adrenaline and he almost manages to break free, but then his weakened body uses up the burst of energy and they drag him and chain him arms spread out to two posts.

Diana was saying worriedly, "Peter? What's going on?"

"You ask for three days," Izquierdo says, turning the whip over in his hands and calmly watching Peter's useless attempts to fight. "I am fair. Three per day."

"Three per—?" Diana asks confusedly.

Izquierdo walks over to him, one of his men following with the transmitter.

"One," Izquierdo says, and cracks the whip viciously over him, and Peter screams through the gag at the shock of agony that bursts through him at its touch. The ropes restraining him cuts through his already bloody wrists, but it pales in comparison to the flames clawing at his back. The smuggler leader looks at him with no joy, no pity, no regret, just an unsettling detachment, until Peter realizes that he is still crying out, and forces himself to be quiet. The detachment is joined by reluctant respect.

"Two," he says. This time Peter's more prepared for the blow and he clenches his teeth so hard his jaw aches. His body screams with abuse and he mentally counts how many are left, trying not to condemn his team for not choosing a lesser number of days.

"Three," Izquierdo says, and the world dissolves back into torment.

* * *

We listen to the whip cracking in silence. After the first muffled scream, there are no more, but we can hear Peter's groans as he doggedly bites them back.

"Four," Izquierdo says, and I curse silently at the man.

"Five." How many had he wanted in "payment" for the three days? Right, three for each day.

"Six." Why hadn't we decided on only two days? Or only one day?

"Seven." I knew why though, even though it hurt so much to stand here and listen to Peter suffer for our ineptitude.

"Eight." It was because we still had thousands of satellite images to go through and the director still wouldn't allow us to go in without proof, _damn_ the man. _Why doesn't he come down here and listen to this?_ I think savagely.

"Nine." And we need those days that Peter bought with his blood because if we fail again, we're certainly not going to get another chance. And then he's dead.

The ragged gasps coming from the transmitter suddenly grow clearer, and I realize that Izquierdo has removed the gag covering Peter's mouth so that he can breathe more easily. Of course, he had only done that because he doesn't want him to die or he'd never get his money, but I felt an unwelcome surge of gratitude nonetheless. I squashed the feeling down.

"Let us talk business now," Izquierdo says. In an undertone, obviously directed towards his men, he orders, "Cut him down, tie his feet together and his hands together and let's go."

Diana's shaking so hard that I'm surprised her voice doesn't tremble when she addresses him. "We will divide up the $3 million and pay $1 million per day. I want to speak to him each day. We will bring the money to a specific location in a black briefcase. You will personally call in every two hours to get the location. You have men here I suppose?"

"Yes," he answers, "I will have them pick it up. But you will have to talk to my deputy. I have other business to attend to."

"No," Diana says coldly, "We will deal with you and only you. Surely you can spare three days to get $3 million."

"...Very well," comes his reply. "I will call in tomorrow morning at two." He clicked his transmitter off.

There's dead silence in the room. No one wants to think about what had just happened, so they simply file out quietly to busy their minds with work.

Alone with Diana, Jones, and Hughes, I close my eyes wearily. Diana notices and orders me to go home and get some rest. Despite my protests I find myself herded to the exit, along with several other agents who had been there as long as I had. I see the despair in her eyes as I leave.

On the walk home, I pull out my phone and calls Elizabeth. "Neal?" she says.

"Hi, how are you holding up?" I ask even though I already know the answer.

"Well enough considering the circumstances." I'm very glad that she hadn't been there at the negotiations. It's going to haunt my nightmares for months. Her tone turned tentative. "Any luck?"

"We got three more days."

There's a pause on her end, and I can tell she's debating whether to ask how we had managed that. I swiftly interject. "We're giving him $3 million. Peter's injured though. I won't lie to you, Elizabeth, it sounded pretty bad."

Her voice quavers only a little when she replies. "You think three days is enough?"

"Elizab—El," I say, and now I'm deadly serious, "I think I can get the other $7 million."

"But they told me that there was no more cash," she says, confused.

"There isn't, not right now. But there will be."

"I don't see—Neal. They'll send you back to jail for that," she whispers.

"Yeah, for like forever."

"Cut a deal with them!"

"What if they just confiscate it all now, and I never get the money?"

"They could still find him," her voice is still a whisper.

"I can't take that risk, El. There are three days. I have to fence them _now_." And that's the problem. I don't have time to make a proper transaction, to make it untraceable back to me. In three days, I'll be lucky to scrape together the rest of the $7 million, even if I sell half my cache, especially since I'm in no position to bargain.

"I get my husband back," she says bitterly, "And you go to prison."

With all the stuff that I've stolen over the years that I'm now going to have to sell, the FBI is going to get enough evidence to put me away for life. But there's no turning back now. I've made a commitment. Which is why Mozzie is already finding buyers and figuring out which things will sell the easiest and quickest, and will earn the most money. I've spent my adult life, and some of my teenage years, building that collection as a weird mix of an insurance policy and trophy hoard. I added the results of my best work, my favorite pieces to it each year…until Peter caught me and sent me to a three year nightmare in prison. And now…now I'm selling it all to save his life. The irony is not lost on me.

"El, please," I plead, my resolve wavering. "Don't make this harder than it already is."

"Peter would never let you do this," she says, instead of arguing with me further.

"Would you?"

She thinks it over. "Yes," she says carefully, "I would. And I am. But you don't need my permission, or Peter's. You are your own person, Neal. No matter what the law or a deal you made with my husband says, you can make your own choices, so long as you don't care about the consequences afterwards."

"El," I say, serious as I have ever been, "I escaped jail to find Kate when I had only four months left to serve. Peter's been there for me all this time, been on my side when I've been in trouble, even when he has no reason to. I would go back to jail to save his life."

"Oh, Neal," she sighs, "I hope you know what you're doing."

"For once in my life, I have no idea," I say, and the thought make me feel terrified. Things are spinning out of my control too fast and I can't stop trembling at the unknown future, where once I looked out at it with fierce determination and wonder. I always have a plan, and back-up plans, and back-up plans for the back-up plans. And now, nothing. There are no escape routes, no hidden passageways, no clever tricks left up my sleeve. Just a single, go-directly-to-jail pass. For the umpteenth time, I consider what I am doing. Just what exactly am I doing? And, more importantly, why?

So I guess I'm not a good person. Not as good a person as Peter. There's absolutely no reason he should trust me or be my friend. He doesn't have to go to the lengths he does to try and help me to accept and like living on the right side of the law. But he does anyway.

I've wondered before what it would be like to be Peter. Loyal, kind, tough when he needs to be. But always good. _Am I a good person? _I wonder to myself, and it seems like such an important question right now.

"Thank you, Neal," El says then, quietly and sincerely, accepting my decision.

"I feel a surge of affection for this wonderful woman who accept me into her family when she, like Peter, had no reason, no obligation to. It was almost worth being caught so that I could meet them.

Despite how Peter was still in grave danger, despite how I could literally seeing my life falling to pieces all around me, I feel a smile break out across my face. It feels strange and then I realize it's the first time I had smiled for days.

"Thank _you_, El. Good bye," I say, the words tasting of finality in my mouth. My smile fades as I hang up and stand there on the sidewalk for a long minute staring blankly into the night sky, which for some reason, was still infuriatingly studded with diamonds.


	2. Consequences

**Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar. (I dont think I did this for Part 1. Oh well. It's here now.)**

* * *

Peter can't tell if he's awake or dreaming, lucid or in a feverish haze, or even if he's dead or alive. Fragments of events drift all around him, but he can't hold on to anything. It's like he's back in that terrible room again. There is nothing to see, no sounds to hear. His consciousness feels sluggish and unresponsive. One of the wisps of memories glides by, and as it gets closer, he can hear voices, and they're getting louder and louder and then he's falling, falling, falling…

"It looks like your friends won't be paying after all," Izquierdo says, the sound of his voice floating down to where Peter's lying on the floor. He realizes that he's facedown, staring at the cold cement floor while around him, his fate is being decided. He tries to move, to sit up, or at least roll over so that he can see what's going on. Even attempting to lift his head feels like a lifetime of agony and he wants to scream, but his throat feels rough and dry like sandpaper, and his jaw feels like it's glued shut. He decides to just lie there and listen for now, while he gets his body back under control.

"—paid enough. We will send your body back to them," Izquierdo is saying. Send body…what? There's something missing, something he should know, something he should understand, but he can't quite grasp it.

"Get him on his knees," he hears, and suddenly a pair of hands grabs him by the shoulders and hauls him up, and Peter nearly loses his grip on reality when he's wracked by pain. But then the world slowly goes back to normal, and he finds himself staring at Izquierdo through unfocused, fever-hot eyes.

He watches the smuggler leader pull a small pistol out of its holster by his side. A single bullet is placed into it, and still, there's something missing. Through the haze, Peter's world is compressed into that single little cylinder. It comes closer and closer, until it bumps gently against his forehead. It feels cold and cool on his head, and he feels a wave of relief. There's still something wrong though, terribly wrong, though for the life of him, he can't tell what it is.

He struggles to remember, to know just why it's so important. And there…he almost has it; he's so close now, he just needs a little bit more time. _A little bit more time._ Where has he heard that before? And then at last, realization slams into Peter so hard that he almost jerks his head back in sheer panic. There's no way he's going to let Izquierdo have that satisfaction though. If this is the end, then he's going to face it calmly and look him straight in the eye when he pulls the trigger. It's getting harder and harder to do so though, what with his head spinning and his whole body hurting.

Izquierdo and his men have faded to mere gray shapes in a sea of fog, and distorted voices echo strangely around him. He kneels there, trying wildly to get his bearings back, and wonders why, with just a touch of bitterness, his senses and self-control have chosen this particular moment to abandon him, until suddenly, he hears a new voice speaking. This one is crisper, clearer, and the sound effortlessly cuts through the fog to Peter, though he can't make out any words. It sounds familiar, achingly familiar, but before he can place it, the finger on the trigger twitches, and darkness swallows him again, and he is back to floating in nothingness, with, for some reason, the image of blue eyes in his head and a welcome feeling of calmness.

…**...**

Time passes annoyingly slow when he's alone in this place. His body still feels like it's burning up, but not as badly as before, but he remembers with a sick feeling of revulsion in his stomach at how _good_ the cold muzzle of the gun had felt pressed into his hot forehead. Peter recalls the twitch of the finger, and he wonders if he is dead then. Is this what death is?

As if in answer, he feels a sharp burst of pain and he wants to curl up, to cry out, to weep, but he has no body, no voice, no eyes in this nothingness. This can't be death; it would be too cruel. He wonders at the anger at the thought, wonders when he became so resentful.

He doesn't know how he long he spends existing in this impossible, torturous place, but it's becoming unbearable to be so alone, and when another wisp of memory comes by, he lunges for it, and experiences that odd, falling sensation again before he wakes up just as a sack is roughly pulled off his head.

"We have received the money," Izquierdo says to him conversationally, seeming unconcerned that the half-dead Peter is so disoriented and feverish from infection that he can barely understand what he's saying. The smuggler leader begins to walk away, leaving Peter kneeling in the dirt.

Before he can stop himself, Peter gasps out, "Why?" the single word slurred and almost impossible to say.

Izquierdo stops and turns around to study him. "Why let you go?" Peter's too busy trying to focus his eyes and reprimanding himself for catching his attention to say anything. "For one thing, $7 million would be nice. But as I told your friends before, I am an honorable man. They have paid your ransom. I now return you to them…relatively unharmed."

Peter knows that he must have looked disbelieving, because Izquierdo humors him with another response. "I am a criminal, yes, but that does not mean that I do not have honor. In any case, a deal is a deal, and I hold up my end of bargains. To do otherwise…is bad for business. You still do not believe me?" And Peter tries very hard to get rid of the disbelief on his face. He really doesn't care if Izquierdo has honor or not. What he does want is to avoid being shot for annoying him.

"I do not blame you. But I thought you of all the law enforcement I have met would. I talked to Neal Caffrey," he says, "I had heard that he had turned and was working for the FBI. When his voice came over the transmitter, I must admit that I was tempted for a moment to shoot you, despite the deal, just to spite him."

"Why didn't you?" Peter asks, curious despite himself.

"It was only a moment," he answers, amused. "And his affection and loyalty to you were obvious, and I was hardly going to turn down the money, was I? I know that you are not as quick to judge people by what the law says they are as others. You and I both know that Caffrey is an honorable man."

Izquierdo touches two fingers to his forehead in a half-mocking, half-serious salute. "May our paths never cross again," he says, and Peter watches him go, as the world dissolves to gray smoke and blackness once again.

He doesn't want to stay here in this dark place where he is completely helpless, though. He wants to walk, to move, to do something, instead of just floating. This time, however, he doesn't float in limbo for long. There's a whole series of wisps that falls into in quick succession, so fast he can barely tell what's going on.

Diana and Jones are in the first one. He remembers the relief on their exhausted faces, joy at his safe return, and concern for his physical state. There's an EMT who keeps ordering him to lie down and rest when he lifts his head up to look for something. Or was it someone?

Now he sees the inside of an ambulance. He's lying on the stretcher and, unbidden, a thought comes to him that he's in the wrong place, that he should be sitting at the side of someone else, that someone else who is constantly injured, someone who constantly throws himself into dangerous situations even when told not to, but for good reasons, the right reasons, not just to play the hero, and he feels a wave of fond exasperation. But all this is confusing and just makes his head ache. He wants the world to make sense again. In the next blurry scene he lands in, he's lying in a bed that feels luxuriously soft. There's a jacket on the back of the chair next to him. He stares at it blankly for a moment, and then realizes that it's El's. It sends an unexpected wave of contentment and calm through him, and it's the best feeling he's had for days.

So when he hears El's voice, gentle and like rain after an age of drought, he gratefully latches onto it and allows himself to be dragged along, for it's a sound he knows he can always—no matter what—trust. There's not too many people like that left in the world. When he's with her, he doesn't have to be anyone but himself. He doesn't have to be the stern, unruffled man in a uniform who "has everything under control" to civilians, doesn't have to be the experienced, respected FBI agent to his fellow agents. With El, he can just be Peter.

When he opens his eyes, El's outside talking to a nurse. For a second, he wonders what they're talking about, but then decides that it doesn't matter. If it's his condition, he'll hear about it soon enough, and he doesn't exactly want to think about the state he's in right now. And if it's just friendly conversation, he should let her relax, because she's probably been worried out of her mind.

He props himself up onto his elbows and gingerly flips himself over so that he can sit up and take a look around. Everything seems to be back to normal again. Nothing is distorted, there's no gray fog, and voices don't echo as if spoken through a tunnel. And as a bonus, his head is a lot clearer than before. Already the experience of existing in nothing is fading away from his mind. He lets it slip away; he doesn't want to remember that place. He does try to retain what happened in the little wisps of memories, but as he comes more fully into wakefulness, he finds suddenly that he can't remember anymore, other than vague impressions that leave him distinctly unsatisfied. It's almost as if he's simply waking up from a nightmare, the last cobwebs of dream brushed away by the gentle stream of sunlight into his room.

His back twinges just then, and though it's not exactly painful, but rather a dull throb, it's accompanied by itching. He twists around to try and feel his back. His hands feel stiff and heavy when he moves them, and he notes the fresh bandages on his wrists. Most of torso seems to be bandaged too, and as he touches them tentatively, events come at him in a roaring rush. He cringes from them; he doesn't want to think about anything, and especially not memories that reek of darkness and pain, blood and fear.

With an effort, he deflects the tide and builds a mental barrier against it. When he opens his eyes, the nurse and El are watching him in concern.

"How are you feeling?" El says softly.

Peter grimaces in response. She lets out a watery laugh and he notices, aghast, that her eyes are wet. "I'm sorry, El," he whispers, reaching over to wrap his arms around her, ignoring the way the movement makes his back burn. "I'm so, so sorry for putting you through this." The nurse unobtrusively leaves the room after a last check over the machines. He continues to murmur nonsensical words, hugging her close, and despite her tears she was shedding because of him, enjoying the warm, tangible feeling of her, and he suspects that she feels the same way.

It's a long time they spend simply reveling in being together again, as the fear and worry of the past week slowly ebb away. Finally, they break apart, and El plants a kiss on his face. "It's not your fault, Peter. We both knew the risks of your job," she says gently, knowing the guilt he feels and trying to relieve him of it.

His head understands and accepts that fact, but it'll be a long time before his heart will, before he can remember how she clung to him and wept without feeling like it was his fault.

"How long was I out for?" he asks instead, his voice more rough with emotion than he had intended.

"A few days," she replies. "Though you were in and out of consciousness. Your fever broke just yesterday."

"…my fever?" he repeats.

"Yeah. You were burning up because the wounds had become infected."

The mental barrier he had hastily constructed crumbles and Peter closes his eyes abruptly as random scenes flashed through his head: a pitch-black room where he couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't hear, a tall man and his thugs around him, the light illuminating the horsewhip, a crack of pain, over and over and over and over…

A mechanical beeping shakes him out of that nightmare and he opens his eyes to find El comforting him as he trembles and gasps. The nurse who had been there before runs into the room and injects him with something. Almost instantly, he feels calmer, and someone's turning him so that he's lying on his stomach again. As he drifts off to unconsciousness again, he hears someone say, "—stress him out too much." El nods and smiles at him, but before he can give her one in return, he's slipping into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

The next time he wakes up, the curtains are drawn across the windows and the hospital seems quiet. El's jacket isn't there anymore, and he thinks that she probably went home to sleep. He's glad that she's getting some rest, but after a few minutes of lying there, he wants to stretch his legs. After looking around for a nurse or doctor, Peter decides to just get up. He's been tied down and stuck in bed, and he wants the freedom of movement that he's been denied for so long.

For now though, there is nothing he can do but wait, nothing to do but sit through doctors and nurses talking soothingly to him and El, agents from the office coming to stand by his bedside and offer awkward expressions of relief that he is safe, his team telling him of their ongoing cases, and grueling physical therapy. Then there's counseling sessions he'll be forced to take even after he's physically fit before he can return to active duty. He tries to remind himself when he's attacked by thoughts like these that he's been lucky, that at least he _will_ be able to return to duty, unlike so many others in his line of work, friends, co-workers, and unnamed, faceless people who Peter will never know, and will never get to know. He knows the statistics. Hostage situations are always dangerously tricky, and it hadn't simply been luck that had gotten him out of that mess.

And now those same people were still out there risking their lives, and he's stuck, not merely in this room, but restricted to the bed. He now has some empathy for what Neal felt in prison. If all those years spent tracking him, and all the time he's been his handler and his friend had taught him anything, it's that the conman has a great love of independence and freedom, even if it caused him to clash with the societal norm. And with Peter. He doesn't mind too much though, because he knows that whatever Neal's done, his heart's in the right place, and that's a lot more than can be said for people supposedly on the right side of the law.

He glances up then at the sound of feet, and is surprised at the man he sees standing there.

"Ed? Ed Mannings?" he says in surprise, squinting at the figure in the doorway, "What are you doing here?"

Ed smiles and says, "I was assigned to work on this case along with my partner. Sorry I couldn't be by to see you earlier."

Peter likes Ed. He's a good agent, and Peter had taken him under his wing when he had first joined the FBI. He hasn't seen or spoken to him in awhile though, after he was transferred to the Organized Crime unit, other than the occasional email or phone call.

"Did you negotiate my release?" Peter asks, curious. Diana, Jones, Hughes, and couple of other agents had stopped by to see him, but no one wanted to tell him anything, dodging his questions by saying that they weren't supposed to be giving him too much stress. Exactly how much hadn't they told him?

"No, your C.I. did," Ed says easily. Peter's delighted that he's finally got some information—at least until what Ed had just said hit him.

"What?" he exclaims. The day seems to be full of surprises. Neal most certainly was not trained for hostage negotiations.

"Yeah…They didn't tell you?"

"No, they didn't," Peter growls, annoyed. Neal was his responsibility. He should have been told of this at least.

"Neal's not a bad person," Ed hastens to assure him, possibly taking his tone as anger at Neal. Peter frowns as he continues earnestly, "He really cares about you Peter. He was really worried. Anyway, he asked me to give you his well wishes."

Peter grins to himself. It seemed as if Neal had won Ed over. He never thought that he'd ever hear him talking about a criminal in such a positive light, as he'd always been pretty straightforward about who was the "bad guy" and who was the "good guy". As Peter himself had been before he'd met Neal. As the FBI still is.

"Well tell him thanks when you see him," Peter says, "I guess they wouldn't let him out of his radius even to see me?" That meant he was probably under house arrest most of the time, which was odd if he had indeed managed to negotiate his release. Even the most experienced agents had to be very, very careful during those things. There was no way Neal had simply brazened his way through with luck and charm. Though another thing he had learned from working with him was that for Neal, nothing was impossible. "Since when were you on a first name basis with him anyway?" he asks lightly.

"Um…" Ed says. Had other agents been giving him a hard time for it? Peter was too respected to be judged by his friendship with Neal, but even so, many believed he was too close to the criminal he was supposed to be watching.

"Relax…I was just teasing," Peter says lightly, "Neal can be pretty charming when he wants to be. Is he under house arrest? Have you been to see him?"

There is no answer forthcoming from Ed. He seems to be at a loss for words.

Peter narrows his eyes. "Ed?"

"I didn't visit his house Peter," he replies.

"Then he's still working at the office? How come Hughes hasn't let you or someone on my team take him to see me? Or, why hasn't he annoyed Hughes until he agreed?"

Ed doesn't reply, just glances around frantically for a distraction and then finally says, "Uh we're not supposed to give you—"

"Please don't finish that sentence with 'too much stress,'" Peter snaps, his temper fraying. "Every single person that comes in here says that. I am not going to get worse if you just tell me what the hell's going on. And I know that there has to be something going on, otherwise you'd just tell me. And quite frankly, I'm giving myself a ridiculous amount of stress worrying about what people are keeping me from knowing!"

Ed's saved from replying by a nurse walking through the door. She takes one look at Peter's readings and begins to admonish Ed about keeping Peter's heart rate down and not giving him things to worry about. Ed actually seems relieved to be standing there being lectured at by a nurse a head shorter than him than to continue his conversation with Peter.

He waits impatiently for her to finish so that he can finally force someone to tell him what's happened. He hates lying around doing nothing and not knowing anything. It reminds him too much of his recent…ordeal. Finally the nurse runs out of steam and, after getting several promises from Collin to keep Peter calm and checking over him once more, leaves.

"Hey, honey," El says, coming into the room, smiling widely at him. "Glad to see that you're looking better."

Noticing his visitor, she looks him over once and says, "Hello, Agent Mannings." Her voice contains just the slightest hint of frost. Ed looks away guiltily.

Now Peter's glaring at them both in annoyance. Since when had _El_ disliked Ed? They'd only even met a couple of times over the years that Peter'd known him.

"Alright, what's going on?" he asks, trying not to let his exasperation leak through. Maybe if he acts very reasonably, and sanely, everyone else will realize how _un_reasonable and _in_sane _they_ all are. "I'm not an invalid, and I don't just look better, I feel better too. I'm not about to collapse on you just for knowing something."

Ed and his wife exchange looks. "Well," Ed finally begins, "We're really technically not supposed to—"

"It's Neal isn't it?" Peter interrupts with a sigh. "Of course it's him. It's always him. What's he done this time?"

"He saved your life, Peter," El says quietly. Ed doesn't say anything, just looks at his feet.

Peter narrows his eyes. "Then where is he? Don't tell me that they put him under house arrest after he managed to do that."

When it becomes apparent that she isn't going to answer, Ed squares his shoulders and looks Peter directly in the eyes. He says, "I didn't see him last at his house because he's not under house arrest. I last saw him at his trial." He pauses to let the implications set in.

There is dead silence in the room.

Peter feels as if something has just hit his stomach very hard, enough to knock the breath out of him and leave him feeling winded. Immediately, almost unconsciously, his mind begins to figure out ways to fix this mess, thinking of ideas and then discarding them almost immediately. What he needs though, are more facts. He can't create a workable plan knowing next to nothing. He doesn't even know why Neal's been arrested. Then, something clicks.

"You were the one who arrested him, weren't you?" No wonder El had been so cold to him.

Ed seems even more dejected, "Yeah, I was."

"What was the sentence?"

"He pleaded guilty, Peter," El tells him, voice tight. "There was overwhelming evidence against him. The judge sentenced him for life."

I lie on the narrow cot in the narrow room staring blankly at the narrow ceiling. Everything feels enclosed and cramped in here. Narrow. No room for people's lives, no room for their dreams and goals. Just four grayish walls.

There's no window in my cell. Apparently, I'm a high-risk prisoner. There's no way they're going to let me escape again. At least, not easily. A window wouldn't have done me much good anyway, in terms of escape at least. There were guards posted on the building outside, and a huge swath of blank, open land before you could even get to the fence.

For my state of mind, though, a window would do me a world of good. It could let me feel in touch with the world, that wide unlimited world full of possibilities and wonder—those things that I'm now cut off from. There's none of that here.

I close my eyes, because when I do, I can pretend the darkness is everlasting, and that there are no bars and walls around me.

The worst part of this is that I brought this on myself. My current situation is completely and utterly my own fault. It's ironic how my plans never go according to them once executed, but the one time I set a plan that leaves me inescapably, undeniably, trapped, it all goes perfectly. But then, this time, there had been no margin for error.

There had been a moment though, when I thought that the plan was going to fail, that I should never have argued to handle the negotiations. I wasn't trained. I had no experience. And Peter's life was on the line. Strange though, how I never, not even for an instant, thought that if Peter died, then I would have given myself up for nothing. I think it's because I would have done it anyway, even had I known that was the outcome. And that frightens me. It frightens me that someone could have so much power over me.

And this person is currently in the hospital. Alive and well, or so I hear. They hadn't let me go visit him, and he was obviously in no condition to come see me. For a long time I hadn't even known if the exchange had gone smoothly, as Agent Mannings and his partner had been ordered to arrest me right after the conclusion of the negotiations. I suppose that I should have felt lucky that they had even allowed me to do that.

I hadn't though. I was too sick with worry and dread and fear for Peter to feel anything else.

Now though, there's nothing to do except think. There's nothing interesting in here. There's no challenges, no intellectual stimulation, no goals to strive for. Nothing except mere existence.

So, I've let myself think about my current situation. No shirking of the truth, no covering it up with lies and useless self-assurances. Just the cold, stark facts. There's two paths I can see laid out for me. In one, I end up with a shiv in my back and a whole lot of blood pumping out of me. In the other, I spend the rest of my life, every single day, every single hour, _every single minute_, in this prison, in this cell that reeks of narrowness.

Both seem equally likely.

Con men like me usually don't have that many enemies; if you're good at your job, and keep a low enough profile, no one would know who stole what from you. Unfortunately for me, though I've done both well enough before Peter caught me, helping the FBI catch criminals didn't exactly make me a whole lot of friends in the criminal underworld. I'd avoided dealing with violent murderers and the like when I was my own man, but for the FBI, I'd risked my life over and over again in the pursuit of hardened criminals that wouldn't waste a thought for the death of another person. It's ironic how our most successful cases are now the source of a big problem for me. The criminals I'd help caught are in jail. _I_ am now in jail. It only takes one lucky blow, or a riot, or a bribed guard for me to end up stone-cold dead.

On the other hand, I don't think that I'll be able to last in this place. Even if I avoided my possible enemies, I simply have nothing to live for. Last time, I could look forward into the future and see a time when Kate and I could be together again, could be happy. I could count the days, and cling to that dream. That's always been one of my strengths, to look forward and hope.

But even I can't build a castle on thin air. Now I have nothing. Now, when I look forward, I see the same blank grey tunnel that I see behind me, on and on in an endless loop.

I don't even know which I'd prefer. A probably messy, bloody death that wouldn't exactly be drawn out, but would still not be considered "quick and painless," or a slow, long breaking of a person through the simple act of forcing them to gaze at the same gray walls day after day.

Of course, I could escape, as I had last time. Although I had already observed the impossibility of that, it's something for me to do, or at least think about. Working on the solution to an impossible situation. I can think of worse ways to spend the rest of my life.

But then again, I no longer have a choice in the matter.

* * *

**A/N: Yay I finally uploaded! Part 2's been sitting in my flashdrive while I attempted to write the end and debated whether I should just publish this first so that you guys wouldn't be kept waiting. Just one more part left!**

**Thanks to the people who pointed out the errors in Part 1. Sorry that I haven't gotten around to fixing them.**

**As always, I appreciate all the reviews. And special thanks to last1stnding for their helpful comments :)**


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